Clint's Musical Mix
by skyfallat221b
Summary: Clint Barton's life has been punctuated by a lot of different songs through the years. Here are some exerpts. (Includes hints to James Bond, X-Men, Wrestling, etc. Will include Clintasha).
1. Chapter 1 - Across the Nation

**Song: Across the Nation - The Union Underground.**

_Now get the guns, the drugs, From my generation.  
I'll take the fall, the saints, across the nation.  
And it's the sex, the gods, the freaks, the frauds.  
They're messin' with me, Come on, come on, come on.  
Let's get it on! _

« Jesus, Clint, put that down ! » were the first words Clint heard as soon as he'd decided to turn on his boombox, blasting the WWE Monday Night Raw theme song he liked so much. Because, _of course_, Clint watched wrestling every now and then, and he even knew a few moves that could be performed as tricks on targets to take down. And, even though, who couldn't do a neat superplex ?

However, instead of turning down the music, Clint turned the button the other way, turning it even louder, and smirked at his friend, as he put his feet up on the table, simply watching the other one shake his head. His hair was neatly set with some hairgel, and he was wearing his usual dark purple suit, knowing that Coulson would come into the office anytime. He'd been called in a few hours earlier, and had taken a jet from London to headquarters as soon as the order had been called. He was unable to attend the debrief from his last mission because of the flight, but he was sure Coulson would get the paperwork done for him. Everybody knew that Clint hated paperwork.

As the music went on, Barton remembered the first time he'd watched a wrestling match on television and the first time he thought that it was all real. Of course not. Kayfabe, they called it. But it didn't change the fact that they were good athletes. Not as good as him, obviously, they couldn't kill you in a few moves, but they were good at what they did.

Clint's favourite wrestler was Chris Jericho. Not that it surprised anyone, with all the submission moves the wrestler had in his skillset. Clint liked the wrestler, and had promised himself that he'd go to a live show one day and meet the guy – who also happened to play in a band. Neat.

Besides, he'd tried the Walls of Jericho on one of his sparring partners one time, and as it turns out, if you twist the body a little more than what you see on television, it can clearly do a lot of damage and make said sparring buddy begin to scream out in pain. If he ever were to get a person into the submission hold, he would make sure to make them scream out in pain. Killer legs. He liked that expression. You could do so many things to hurt other people, Clint almost knew them all. And, if wrestling was a good thing to get time to go by quicker, it was also good inspiration for some moves he could use in the field.

However, when Phil Coulson's face appeared in the doorframe, Clint promptly turned down the music, knowing it was a new job to be done. He took the file he was handed and immediatly began turning the pages, looking for the picture of the target he was to take down. It appeared to be a woman, kissed by fire by the looks of it.

« You watch wrestling ? » Phil asked, as he pointed to the boombox, and Clint nodded. Of course he did. He knew Phil did so occasionnally too, but never commented on it. They kept it between them, wrestling wasn't exactly something they bragged about. Not unless they were sparring and wanted to try a superplex or a frogsplash on a partner – and fail, eventually ending up in a pair of bruised ribs. When they say don't try this at home, listen to them. But Clint had ended up learning a few moves, knowing Phil recognised them whenever he watched Clint spar with someone.

« Every now and then, » he answered, still turning the pages in the file, « I like to keep a day off when Wrestlemania's on, » he finished off as he closed the file again, eyeing his friend sitting next to him. « Do I get to take Mr. Whiney-bitch with me on this mission or am I going in alone ? »

« You're going alone. You'll have to figure out a way to get rid of her clean, Fury doesn't want a mess like you did when you helped that British agent in Madagascar. »

Rolling his eyes, Clint blew a kiss to his friend who had sunk back into his seat, but didn't get up from his seat. Madagascar had been quite the fiasco when Bond had blown up a whole fucking embassy, but at least he'd helped him get the information he needed. He'd been back in Mombassa less than three hours after Bond had gotten the so precious mobile phone, and repatriated back to US soil in less than 24 hours to get a verbal beating by same Mister Coulson standing in front of him right now. The same Coulson he was more or less ignoring thinking about which Diva he'd rather French kiss if he had the occasion.

« Fury wants it done yesterday, Barton. »

Nodding, Clint closed his eyes, as he remembered the last time he'd watched a wrestling match. Why was he suddenly feeling like he should tune in next Monday once the job was done ? He ignored Phil royally, but eventually came back down to Earth when the song hit its end. With one finger push, he hit the replay button, and the song started over again. And then he knew. Yeah, he'd kiss Stacy Keibler if he had the chance.

« When do I leave, then ? » he questionned, getting up, taking the file with him, under his arm, as he followed Coulson out of the office, down some of the corridors of SHIELD's headquarters. He never liked the place, too clean, too hospital like. It reminded him of that time he'd gone to Xavier's school for the young gifted handing over an artifact of great importance, and he hadn't liked it there.

« In an hour. You're going to Budapest, » Coulson answered firmly, as he turned left, into the weaponry where Clint's bow was hanging proud. « Please don't make a mess this time ? » Clint's handler asked, with a pleading look in his eyes – a look which also meant don't fuck it up this time. Was there something special about his target, Clint thought. Probably not.

_Forget the lies, the money, we're in this together.  
And through it all, they said nothing's forever.  
And they refuse to see the change in me,  
Why won't they wake up? Come on, come on, come on.  
Let's get it on! _


	2. Chapter 2 - Through Fire and Flames

So far away we wait for the day  
For the lives all so wasted and gone  
We feel the pain of a lifetime lost in a thousand days  
Through the fire and the flames we carry on

Running always felt good. It was one of the only things Clint knew how to do without having to think too much, and running around in New York was one thing that always helped Clint get his heart rate down – even though it should rise – and one way to get his mind off things. He was leaving for Budapest in a few hours.

It was with Dragonforce's sound blasting into his temples that he reached Times Square, stopping up on the corner of a street, looking around. He could feel his mobile phone vibrating against his chest in the little velcro pocket his shirt had, but he didn't feel like answering. He knew it was Coulson asking where the hell he was, but he needed to run his 20 minutes usual run time before a mission, just to get worked up enough before settling down to take out this or that target.

He pressed the button on his iPod to take the song back to the beginning, and he began to run again, avoiding pedestrians with an orientation he'd mastered long ago. « _On a cold winter morning, in the time before the light, in flames of death's eternal reign we ride towards the fight..._ » The lyrics sounded like they'd been written for this situation. After all, he was riding towards the fight in a way.

Sure, it wasn't towards a battle of Gods and Demons, he was just riding into a mission to take someone down. It wasn't glorious, it wasn't something which would have repercussions on the entire world, it was just a head that needed to get an arrow through it. Nothing more.

«_ When the darkness has fallen down, and the times are tough all right, the sound of evil laughter falls around the world tonight,_ » he hummed, as he ran down past the foot of Stark Tower, the giant construction not done yet. There had been press interviews when Stark had decided to buy an old building and redo it in his own name. After all he'd been through with his own adventures in the Middle East and having to face the press now that he was Iron Man, he could understand the Diva-like acting.

Clint ran past it, and ran back to his own flat, ignoring yet another call from Coulson. He pressed on the iPod for the volume to get higher as the song reached the bridge, and he sighed deeply when he stopped up in front of the stairs leading up to the building his flat was in.

He typed the code in, before running towards the stairs. Nothing better than 8 levels of stairs to take to finish off his run, his shirt carrying the sweat marks around his neckline and his underarms, as well as his back. He pulled out the mobile phone as it vibrated a third time, and this time he answered his handlers question.

« Barton, where the hell are you ? » the voice on the phone barked at him. « I'm getting to my flat, I need to take a shower before you deport me to fucking Budapest, » he snapped at Coulson, as he kept on taking steps two at a time.

« I don't care that you need a shower, I need you here in fifteen minutes, not a second later, » Coulson added, as Clint stopped up in front of his flat door, unlocking it by entering the four digit code. He pushed the door open as he answered his handler. « Yeah, I'll be there in twenty, now sit tight and wait for me, » he stated, plainly, as he hung up, throwing the phone on the couch, before walking out to the bathroom, pulling his shirt off, the remnants of the song still ringing in his ears.

«_ Fighting hard, fighting on for the steel, through the wastelands evermore, the scattered souls will feel the hell bodies wasted on the shores, on the blackest plains in hell's domain, we watch them as we go : in fire and pain, and once again we know !_ » he whispered to himself as he heard the music coming from the earbuds resting on his shoulders – he'd pulled them out to answer the phone.

He put the iPod on its resting stand next to the sink and pressed the button allowing the music to come out of the loudspeakers.

And, twenty minutes exacty later, he was standing ready to get flown to Budapest, an angry but relieved Coulson having yelled at him for being late. But Clint didn't care – because he knew that they needed him to get the mission done, so they'd damn well wait for him to get ready to go.

* * *

**Unbeta'd. Let me know how you like it?**


End file.
